


Garden

by Peccatrix



Category: Blixa Bargeld - Fandom, Einstürzende Neubauten, Nick Cave - Fandom, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Nixa, blixa/nick
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:19:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3099668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peccatrix/pseuds/Peccatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you put The Garden on repeat and get drunk reading Bunny Munro, this is the sort of filth you may produce. I'd like to apologize in advance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Garden

Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all, Blixa thought self-aware as he felt the dampness of the grass slowly sieve into his trousers and chilling his backside. It has seemed like such a good idea earlier, to have a writing session in the small garden in his backyard, surrounded by flower beds and writhing vines, watching the cumuli languidly drawl across the golden azure sky. Sitting here now, however, and evaluating whether his underwear was just cold or slowly absorbing ground humidity, he felt like a damn cliché.

Stubbornly he jots something in his notebook, but there’s this bee that won’t leave on an alarmingly close by azalea, and he wonders if Morrissey and those other romantic twats were lying about this ‘serene calm’ of tamed and enclosed patches of wildlife.

An exasperate sigh emanates from deep within his chest, and he lets himself fall back onto the slight rise of the tiny hillside he’d selected for a writing spot earlier and stretches his arms up above him. The grass is lush and tickles the strip of skin at the back of his neck where his shirt collar ends and his hair not quite covers. Self-doubt trickles over him, slowly, like honey, or tar, an angry mob getting ready for a final act of humiliation and degradation. It chills him to the bone, and he wonders whether the sun has given up and surrendered its short reign of the firmament above to the wild, swirling clouds. It’s fucking cold.

‘Oi, Blixa’

He jolts up at the voice, _that_ voice, and nearly headbutts the intruder in the process.

‘Nick, you, you fucking-‘ Blixa gasps out, grasping for words.

Nick just smiles and suavely brushes off imaginary dirt from his immaculate suit, the eternal twat. ‘Ah missed you too, fucker’, he grins down at him from behind his shades, and Blixa can’t tell if he’s being serious or just-

‘Fucking hell Nick, you can’t just barge into people’s houses like that-“

‘Well technically it’s a garden, not-‘

‘How do you even know where I live, I-‘

‘And also it’s _your_ garden it’s not like I-‘

‘Jesus why are you even in Berlin, fuck, why even Europe-‘

‘Oh shush with it,’ Nick finally breathes, drops to his knees from where he’s been towering above Blixa and kisses him full on, burying his hand in his hair and toppling off that ridiculous hat in the process. Blixa, after the initial surprise, rolls his eyes at the cliché of it all, that shade of doubt still creaking his core, but grudgingly admits to himself that there is not one iota of his being resisting the kiss.

He pushes back at Nick, roughening the kiss, feeling teeth scrape against teeth and fanning out his hands against his assailant’s chest, shoulders and general weight above him. He feels to his burgeoning aggravation that Nick is smiling into the kiss, panting into his mouth as he easily manoeuvres the man beneath him to the ground and thoroughly dominates him. He bites tauntingly at his prey’s lower lip before kissing, lapping and biting his way down his jaw, his neck, long, ringed fingers tugging at Blixa’s buttoned shirt collar, demanding access.

‘ist dat a something in your pocket..” Blixa tries to taunt him, but Nick is not even acknowledging this as it is hard to be funny when your voice is reduced to staggering breaths and the occasional moan.

The cold is gone now, and it is all just sticky, candied warmth, grinding them together in an animalistic rut, one against the other. Nick buries the palms of his hands in the soft clay emanating from underneath the now worn grass, as he pistons his hips to the sound of his lover, his desired, his prey groans and writhes underneath him, digging his nails into the vulnerable skin at his sides.

At some point it must have started to rain, as there is only so much sweat two human beings can produce, sprawling about on a damp lawn a chilled July afternoon on the outskirts of Berlin. Blixa exaggeratedly lamented the soggy papier-mâché lump that had once been his note book, only to be drawn back into bed where warmth and actual, human, genuine affection awaited.

And if only for a moment, he felt truly unashamed of what a soppy fucking cliché he was.

**Author's Note:**

> (Oh god I am so sorry you actually had to read this, I am so, so sorry)  
> (also I'm still drunk, words are difficult and i refuse to read it through again)


End file.
